


Rosemary for Remembrance

by troubled_midnight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Companionable Snark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Sherlock Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:15:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1801705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubled_midnight/pseuds/troubled_midnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock acquires a pet. Yes, a pet. And it's not a goldfish. Mycroft may be correct in his statement that all lives end and all hearts are broken, but sometimes hearts can be mended when even consulting detectives least expect it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, one and all. Having spent the past six months reading Sherlock fic to the exclusion of pretty much everything else (including sleep), it's high time I gave something back. So this is my first fan fic. Ever. If you happen to stumble across it, do say hello. I hope you enjoy it, and please let me know if I'm doing it wrong.
> 
> Warning: there is a passing reference to the deaths of some animals. Said deaths occur off-camera, but the poor deceased creatures do make a brief appearance. Sherlock had a truly crappy childhood in this version of events. The story is redemptive and healing in the end, but if animal deaths may trigger you, you might want to give this one a miss.

It’s been a long, dull day at the clinic: an endless round of coughs and colds followed by a miserable walk home in the dark and the rain, and all John wants now is a cup of tea and some mindless telly before he collapses to sleep the sleep of the completely knackered. As he enters the flat and hangs his coat, he offers a silent prayer to any deity who might be listening that he won’t be kept from his well-earned rest by a certain consulting detective of his intimate acquaintance to whom the notion of a good night’s sleep is an utterly alien concept.

The flat is dark except for the kitchen, and as John shuffles in to make tea, he thinks he’s prepared for whatever Sherlock might be doing in there. Lord knows, he’s resigned to the steady accumulation of unidentifiable stains and scars on the kitchen table, at which he only occasionally glances these days with a hint of a frown before shrugging and settling down to eat and read the paper. He’s grown accustomed to the equally (and probably thankfully) unidentifiable smells that linger long after Sherlock’s finished whatever cracked experiment – _For science, John!_ – has absorbed him most recently. He’s also made some kind of peace with the contents of the fridge looking like a gift basket from a serial killer, although he still makes the occasional forlorn attempt to separate the human remains from the food. Most recently, he’s learned to check before drinking from any mug Sherlock hands him after the Defrosting Mice Incident. Thankfully he noticed the tails before he took a sip.

This, however … this is … unprecedented.

For a start, it’s still alive.

John’s only option here is to throw caution to the wind and ask a question, although he knows that gambit is doomed to certain failure if Holmes the lanky and annoying isn’t in the mood to be cooperative.

‘Sherlock, where did you get that?’

‘It was scavenging in the bins at the Yard.’

‘And why is it on our kitchen table?’

‘Insert evasive answer number seven.’

‘What?’

Sherlock looks at him, blinks, then rolls his eyes elaborately. Were Petulant Expressions an Olympic sport, John reflects, actual petulant teenagers would be lucky to make it home with the bronze. ‘I was hoping to save us some time. We’ve had twenty-two of these pointless conversations in the past six months and the form is boringly predictable. You ask a series of dull questions to which you’re never going to get an answer because they’re _the wrong ones_. Consequently I’ve made a list of the seventeen evasive answers which have worked most successfully in the past to deflect you, and on this occasion I’m deploying number seven. It’s a kind of shorthand, but it only works if you keep up.’

 _Round one to Sherlock, smug git._ John is curious about the list, but damned if he’ll be sidetracked when something far more important is going on. He shelves further questions for the time being and turns his attention to the cardboard box in the middle of the kitchen table, and to its utterly unexpected contents.

A kitten.

A tiny black and white thing, eyes open so it must be at least a couple of weeks old. The detective’s hands are hovering over the box, long fingers twitching in a most distracting manner as he tries to decide what to do next. As if he’s dying to touch but is … afraid to. It’s not remotely normal for Sherlock to pause and reflect before jumping into anything, and fear doesn’t really occur to him until afterwards, and only then as an intellectual curiosity. However, while an uncertain Sherlock isn’t quite as unprecedented an occurrence as the kitten, it’s a rare enough sight that John takes a moment to savor it.

Until the kitten begins mewing piteously, that is.

‘Sherlock, have you tried to … No, silly question, of course you haven’t. How long have you been standing there “observing” the poor little bugger? No, no need to answer that one either.’

The doctor gently but firmly eases Sherlock out of the way and carefully picks up the little scrap of life to offer it some warmth and comfort. It barely fills his cupped palm, and John’s hands aren’t particularly large. He puts his little finger close to the kitten’s mouth and smiles when he’s rewarded by the hungry kitten’s valiant attempt to suckle. The poor thing’s starving.

Sherlock is still hovering, still clearly out of his depth for reasons John cannot fathom at that moment, but caring for the damaged is his territory, and he’s had plenty of practice thanks to his beguiling but bonkers lover. He knows exactly what needs doing – for the next couple of minutes, at least.

‘I adore you, Sherlock, but you’re an idiot. Make yourself useful and bring me the bottle of milk from the fridge. And then you can find me a pipette – a clean one, mind.’

The detective opens his mouth to say something acerbic, but closes it again when he registers the expression on John’s face. It’s his _don’t-be-a-prat-just-do-it_ face, and Sherlock’s seen it often enough to know that now is not the time to be a smart-arse. A moment later, the bottle of milk is on the table and Sherlock’s rooting around noisily in a box of miscellaneous this and that in the living room. He returns triumphantly brandishing a disposable pipette, still in its sterile packet.

‘Shall I pour boiling water over it as well, Doctor?’

John wisely ignores the barb and holds his empty hand out for the pipette, which he fills with milk and brings to the kitten’s mouth. The ravenous creature goes to it with a will, and the pipette is soon empty. John feels Sherlock’s eyes following his every move as he repeats the process, then startles the detective by holding out the empty pipette and the kitten. Sherlock stares for a moment, then reluctantly extends one of those beautiful musician’s hands. The kitten looks even tinier in the cradle of Sherlock’s fingers.

John steps back and enjoys the careful precision with which the detective feeds the little creature. He could watch those fingers all day, at least until the sight of them fiddling with the microscope or the violin pushes him over the edge and he’s forced to tackle Sherlock to the sofa in a bid to have them doing things to him for a while instead. But perhaps now isn’t the time to indulge that particular line of thinking. Later. Definitely later. At the present moment there’s something not quite right with Sherlock, and John’s concerned.

‘That’s probably enough for now, love,’ he says as the kitten’s sucking slows and becomes a quest for comfort rather than sustenance.

Sherlock puts the pipette on the table next to the milk bottle and is clearly about to deposit the kitten back in the box.

‘What are you doing, Sherlock?’

‘I’d have thought that would be obvious even to you.’

John smiles affectionately and shakes his head. ‘Do you really think the kitten’s going to be happy back in that box?’

‘It was fine in there before you came home and disturbed it,’ Sherlock snaps, knowing from the patient expression on John’s face that he’s doing something a bit not good and annoyed to be caught at it.

‘Come over here, love, and bring the kitten.’ John moves to the sofa and settles in his usual corner. Sherlock follows reluctantly and folds his long body next to the doctor’s with noticeably less stroppy abandon than usual. He’s still holding the kitten in his palm, at arm’s length from his body like a grenade with a loose pin.

‘It’s not going to bite you – or explode, honest. Here, like this.’ John mimes tucking the kitten in the crook of his arm and holding it close to his body. Sherlock does as he’s bid and then surprises John by beginning to stroke the tiny creature’s soft fur without further instruction. And when the kitten begins to purr contentedly, Sherlock’s eyes light up with an utterly unexpected childlike delight that makes John’s heart ache. He leans against Sherlock, and the detective obligingly wraps his arm around John’s shoulders and pulls him closer. The good doctor takes over stroking the kitten, which has fallen fast asleep on Sherlock’s arm in that boneless way unique to babies of all species.

They’d make a pretty picture, John thinks, but there’s still something churning in Sherlock’s crazy brain behind his carefully neutral expression. _Deep breath, John._ ‘Can I ask you a question?’

The hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth is at odds with an expression he’s otherwise schooled into sternness. ‘Of course, John. If it isn’t boring or wrong, I might even answer it.’

Sensing he probably only has one shot at this, John starts carefully. ‘You look as if you’ve never held a kitten before.’

Sherlock waits a beat or two, and when nothing more is forthcoming, he gives John a mock-scathing glance and says, ‘That’s not a question, now, is it? Do we have to review basic grammar and syntax _again_?’

John digs him in the ribs, but gentler than usual so as not to disturb the kitten. Sherlock squirms satisfyingly, regardless. He’s very ticklish and John has absolutely no compunction taking advantage of the fact when he’s being particularly annoying. ‘OK, genius, didn’t you have any pets when you were growing up?’

He’s totally unprepared for the sorrow that fills his lover’s eyes as unexpectedly as the delight that sparkled there a few minutes ago, and this time a fist clenches around his heart and squeezes. Hard. ‘I’m sorry, Sherlock – you don’t have to talk about this if it upsets you.’

‘I’m fine, John,’ he says firmly, but he’s clearly not. ‘To answer your question, my experiences with animals have been limited to dead ones.’

But John knows Sherlock, and he knows there’s more to it than that. John also knows when to be quiet, and feeling the detective still completely, he watches his eyes lose focus as he disappears inside his mind to do some serious thinking. John tucks his head under Sherlock’s chin and closes his eyes. He is a patient man, and he’ll wait for ever if that’s what Sherlock needs.

 

Sherlock’s slipped into his mind palace and is making his way to the herb garden where he cultivates the memories of a poisoner’s delight of deadly botanicals. He notices absently that the belladonna is in bloom, and the foxgloves, and the hemlock is doing better since he moved it into the shade. His memory helpfully overlays the Latin names of all the plants he passes, but he isn’t really paying attention. He’s focused on his destination – a patch of bare earth in the far corner of the garden surrounded by fragrant rosemary. He kneels and inhales the scent for a few moments before beginning to dig with his hands, slowly, reluctantly, because this is the place where Sherlock buries the painful things he would prefer to forget but cannot bring himself to delete. And so he inters them here, to give himself the time it takes to exhume them to be absolutely sure he wants to dig up the past.

He’s looking for one memory in particular, which he keeps in a biscuit tin he remembers from Christmas Day when he was four. It’s red with a pattern of green holly leaves on the lid, and he can still taste every one of the biscuits he sneaked from it when no one was looking. His fingernails scrape against something hard, then find the edges of the tin and ease it carefully from its grave. It’s rusty now and caked with dirt, but the red is still visible in places, along with the odd holly leaf. He holds it in his lap for a moment and takes a deep breath before he pries off the lid.

Inside, wrapped carefully in a silk Hermès scarf his mother’s still looking for, is the perfectly preserved kitten’s skeleton. Sherlock traces the tiny bones with the tip of one finger and closes his eyes against the pain of the memory now flooding him.

Sherlock is six years old, and he is bored. He’d been happily practicing the violin, but after several hours of scales, both parents and his wretched older brother Mycroft have told him to give it a rest and play in the garden. And so Sherlock is reluctantly outside, skulking and sulking, and bored, which is a dangerous state for this peculiar little boy who is called a freak by everyone except his mother and father, and Mycroft for the most part, although he supposes older brothers can’t always be expected to resist tormenting their younger siblings. Sherlock finds himself at the door of the gazebo. Even at six years old he knows there’s something absurd about this daintily appointed glorified shed which Britain’s inclement weather renders unusable for nine months out of twelve. Still, desperation to escape the dangerous boredom overcomes his scorn, and he enters in search of the packet of cigarettes only his father thinks is a secret.

But his quest for illicit nicotine is forgotten the instant he sees the cat and the kittens. He stands perfectly still – something he can do for hours on end if he chooses – so as not to disturb the little tableau playing out on his mother’s frankly hideous rattan sofa. Sherlock knows a lot of things – more than he should for his age, or so he’s constantly told – and right now he’s remembering everything he knows about cats. He’s not allowed pets. Mummy claims allergies, but she just doesn’t want fur on her Burberry and claw marks on the Chippendale. But he would still like a pet, a furry one for preference, to test his hypothesis that they must be as soft, and warm, and comforting as they look.

So. Cats. _Felis silvestrus catus_. This one’s black and white, as are the three kittens which are barely an hour old. The mess of fluids staining the cushion at one end of the sofa indicates where the mother gave birth to them – yes, Sherlock knows where baby animals come from, thank you – after which she relocated them to a dry spot and is now busily licking them clean and encouraging them to suckle. Sherlock’s fingers itch to touch but he knows he mustn’t – he’ll only frighten the mother off, and she might reject her babies if she smells his scent on them. So he puts his hands in his pockets and kneels down on the floor as close as he thinks the mother will permit, and there he stays, and observes, and yearns to touch but doesn’t, until darkness falls and his father comes to find him. Sherlock has no desire to go to bed but knows arguing is pointless. He’ll just slip out in the morning when everyone else is still asleep and pick up where he left off.

His father isn’t remotely happy to see the felines and mutters under his breath all the way back to the house about the mess and what his mother’s going to say when she finds out. Sherlock really doesn’t like his father’s tone or the look in his eye, but pushes his unease aside as he meticulously files his observations in the corner of his mind he’s allocated to all things cat.

He’s back at the gazebo first thing the following morning, but the cat and kittens are gone, as are all the cushions from the sofa. The unease he felt yesterday flares and escalates rapidly into panic. Sherlock likes to know things, but sometimes he wishes he didn’t remember _everything_ , because one of the facts hoarded away in the cat file is what sometimes happens to unwanted kittens. And then his intellect is overcome by emotion and he’s running across the garden to the bins, knowing he’s too late – but perhaps, just this once, he’ll be glad to be proved wrong.

The soiled cushions aren’t hard to find, and with them three sad, limp bodies, still damp from drowning. Sherlock gathers them up – it doesn’t matter if he touches them now – and holds them in his lap, sobbing his broken heart out. He’s crying for them, of course, for the waste and the needless cruelty, but deep down he knows he’s also crying for himself, for something he has no name for that’s been drowned along with them.

 

‘Sherlock.’

            John starts to worry when the first tear falls. He’s seen the detective in this near-catatonic thinking state many times, but this is the first time he’s seen Sherlock cry – ever, in fact. He strokes his lover’s arm gently, and when that gets no response, he turns around on the sofa and kneels facing him. He traces the track of the tear down Sherlock’s cheek with a fingertip as another falls, and then, ever so gently, he cups that fallen angel’s face in his palms and kisses him softly, whispering Sherlock’s name until his eyes regain their focus and he inhales a deep and shuddering breath.

            ‘I’m sorry, love,’ John says, still cradling Sherlock’s face in his hands, gently wiping away the tears with his thumbs. His gaze is steady, fierce. ‘I’ll gladly murder whoever put that look on your face and that pain in your heart. Tell me where they live and it’ll be done by daybreak.’

            Sherlock curls his fingers around the back of John’s neck and pulls him in for another kiss, deeper this time, and John lets him take what he needs, for as long as he wants. When Sherlock finally relaxes the insistent pressure around the base of John’s skull, the doctor pulls back a little, just enough to see what’s going on in Sherlock’s eyes. The unbearable sadness is still there in the shadows, but it’s fading as he packs away whatever dreadful memory he’s just relived.

‘I appreciate the offer, John, but it’s not necessary. What’s done is done.’ Sherlock turns his gaze to the tiny kitten still nestled in the crook of his arm, breathing softly, warm, very much alive, and every bit as comforting a presence as his childhood self imagined. ‘But perhaps some wounds can be healed, and new memories made.’ Then he lays his head against the back of the sofa and closes his eyes.

John curls up next to him with his head resting on Sherlock’s thigh, Sherlock’s hand in his hair, stroking gently, the kitten still fast asleep. Gradually Sherlock’s fingers still. John waits until he feels the last of the tension drain from Sherlock’s body, and only then does he permit himself to drift off himself. They’ll work out what to do with the kitten in the morning.


	2. The Naming of Cats Is a Difficult Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,  
> A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,  
> Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,  
> Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?’  
> T. S. Eliot, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. Thank you all for being so welcoming - it's lovely here. Some of you have expressed an interest in reading the further adventures of Sherlock and the kitten, so here is Chapter Two. Much less angsty than the last one, I promise :-)  
> Thanks to 1butterfly_grl1 for reminding me about cows' milk and felines - I hope I've sorted that here.

John surfaces from a deep and blessedly nightmare-free sleep to the sensation of something tickling his neck. Eyes still closed, reluctant to stir too irrevocably from his pleasant drowsiness, he reaches up expecting to find Sherlock’s curls, which often have an unruly life of their own when not tamed by whatever expensive product Sherlock claims not to use. But John’s questing fingers fail to make contact with his lover’s head, finding instead something unfamiliarly bony and … furry, yes, definitely furry, curled up between his neck and chin. He experiences a moment of disorientation before his sleepy brain recalls a late night, a stray kitten and an uncharacteristically emotional Sherlock. John opens his eyes and takes a quick recce of his surroundings. He’s still on the sofa, where he nodded off with Sherlock the night before. The detective’s thigh has been replaced with the Union Jack cushion, which he’s now sharing with the sleeping kitten, and the blanket draped somewhat haphazardly over him explains why his legs are toasty warm and his upper torso not so much.

            John is vaguely contemplating sitting up when his mobile anounces an incoming text. The sound is emanating from somewhere near his head and a bit of scrabbling down the back of the seat cushion soon locates it, along with a biro, a test tube burned black on the outside containing a viscous, congealed substance that smells vaguely like Christmas pudding, and something shriveled and papery that might once have been alive and which John will be binning immediately and then doing his best to forget. He is fully expecting the detective to have abandoned him for some case or other, and consequently is caught completely off guard by the contents of the text message:

At Tesco.  
SH

John wonders whether he’s actually still asleep and dreaming after all. Sherlock never goes shopping willingly unless it’s for bespoke clothing, black-market body parts or toxic substances and would rather have sharpened slivers of bamboo shoved under his fingernails than darken the doors of Tesco. John is distracted from the sudden urge to head to the window to see if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are galloping down Baker Street by the kitten waking up and another incoming text:

Your obsession with Tesco remains a mystery.  
Staff: idiots all.  
Shelves: lamentably understocked.  
SH

Now, John must in all fairness admit that he’s had his issues with the local Tesco, mostly involving an ongoing battle with the recalcitrant chip-and-pin machines, but its shelves usually offer everything a normal person might need. But this is Sherlock, and “normal” is one word not even total strangers would be tempted to use to describe the world’s only consulting detective. A third text arrives:

Problem solved. On my way home.  
Do not touch HH until I get there.  
SH

John has absolutely no clue what HH is, but he’s still only barely conscious and knows he doesn’t have a hope in hell of working out what Sherlock’s going on about until he’s had his first cup of tea. So he ignores the messages, picks up the kitten before it takes a header off the sofa and shuffles to the kitchen in search of restorative caffeine.

The cardboard box Sherlock brought the kitten home in is still on the table, and after taking in the gritty residue of unknown provenance currently coating the floor and most of the counter space, he decides the box is the kitten’s best bet for surviving until lunchtime. As soon as he puts it down, of course, it begins to mew pitifully. John is a kind man possessed of a heart filled with the utmost compassion for most of god’s creatures, but he has learned the hard way on the long and knackering road from medical school to battlefield triage that he’s use to neither man nor beast if he’s half-asleep. And something tells him he’s going to need his wits about him on a day that’s begun with Sherlock taking himself to Tesco of his own volition.

            So John goes about his morning routine, which today requires the extra step of digging the tea caddy out from behind a bottle of formaldehyde that wasn’t in the cupboard when he left for work yesterday. Tea made and a few heavenly but too-hot sips taken, he fills the pipette with milk and is about to feed the kitten when a long-fingered hand wraps around his wrist, deftly locating the pressure points that enable Sherlock to pluck the pipette from John’s suddenly nerveless grip.

            “Ow—the fuck, Sherlock?”

            “I’m surprised at you, John—cows’ milk is completely unacceptable as a source of nutrition for kittens. And you call yourself a physician.”

            John’s eyes narrow as he massages the feeling back into his hand. “Yes, Sherlock, I do indeed call myself a physician, as opposed to, say, a vet. Yet despite that tragic and unforgivable gap in my medical training, I do know the milk wasn’t the best thing, but it’s all we had and the poor thing was starving.”

            Sherlock has clearly tuned John out already as he stalks around the kitchen, haphazardly pushing aside everything on the table except the kitten’s box to make space for what John registers is in fact an astonishingly ugly tote bag with mawkish cartoon kittens prancing all over it. He closes his eyes for a moment, hoping that when he opens them again, everything will have magically reverted to the everyday macabre circus freak show that passes for “normality” at 221B Baker Street. Not a hope in hell, of course. He knows he’ll regret asking, but there really is no alternative.

            “Sherlock, where did you get that appalling bag? You didn’t actually buy it, did you?”

            The detective gives John the look of condescending superiority with a side of snide contempt that he usually reserves for Anderson when he’s being particularly obtuse at a crime scene.

            “Have you _finally_ lost what little remained of your sanity, John?”

            John pauses with his mug of tea halfway to his mouth, having rescued it from Sherlock’s indiscriminate “tidying.” He opens his mouth to retort but then thinks better of it, choosing instead to shake his head and finish his tea. For it has occurred to him that not engaging will annoy Sherlock no end, and the good doctor allows himself a bit of a smirk when Sherlock sees that John’s not taking the bait. It’s Sherlock’s turn to narrow his eyes slightly and give John his patented “I’ll be storing that information away for future reference” look, which he deploys on the rare occasions when John manages to do something unexpected. Sherlock enjoys being teased about as much as your average cat does, but this is shaping up to be an opportunity to do exactly that. John knows the detective will make him pay later, but right now it’s worth every penny.

            Sherlock starts rummaging around in the bag. “If you could be bothered to interpret the evidence right here in front of you, you’d know that this bag belongs to Molly. When Tesco proved to be a total waste of time, I concluded that someone with such a misguided penchant for ill-fitting garments of a cat-related nature might just be worth consulting on the subject of kittens. And behold—” The detective triumphantly brandishes a tin of something in one hand and a miniature baby’s bottle in the other, as if he’s Moses coming down the mountain with the Ten Commandments.

            John puts his empty mug in the sink and contemplates making more tea, but decides that baiting Sherlock will require all his attention. He knows he’s only adding to the tally of transgressions and punishments Sherlock is doubtless keeping in some ledger in his bloody mind palace, but he just can’t help himself sometimes.

            Assuming his blandest, most harmless-looking “I’m an idiot, me” expression, he leans against the edge of the sink and says, “So what’s in the tin, then? Fairy dust and powdered unicorn turds?” _And three … two … one …_

            Sherlock responds right on cue with an eyeroll of truly Oscar-worthy quality. “As I’m sure you know _perfectly_ well, it’s powdered kitten milk replacement formula. Now, if you could possibly refrain from asking any more stupid questions and get out of my way, the kitten is hungry.”

            John strolls nonchalantly around the table as Sherlock flounces to the sink and sets about measuring and mixing water and formula with the attention and precision he usually reserves for handling explosives. When the formula is prepared and the bottle filled to his satisfaction, Sherlock turns just as John is reaching into the box for the kitten. The detective is at his side in a heartbeat and shoulders him unceremoniously out of the way. With a gentleness belied by the thunderous expression on his face, he scoops the little creature up and heads for the living room. John follows without a word. This he _has_ to see.

            “Sure you don’t want any help with that?” John asks as he settles in his armchair. “Because until last night, kittens were a total mystery to you, apparently.”

            Sherlock fixes John with a stare Medusa would have been proud of as he makes origami of his angular body and folds into his chair, deftly maneuvering the kitten one-handed until he’s supporting its head in the crook of his thumb and forefinger before bringing the bottle to tiny lips already suckling at nothing.

            Eyes intent on the kitten again, Sherlock replies, “I’m not sure you can be trusted to offer advice of any kind after the cows’-milk debacle, _Doctor_. Molly has instructed me in the correct technique, and it would take me longer to demonstrate than to feed him.”

            “Him? Sure it’s male, are you?”

            Monumental sigh. “Do pay attention, John—of course Hamish is male. What did they teach you in medical school? You call yourself—”

            “A physician, yes,” John interjects with a grin. God, this is fun. A little voice at the back of his head is whispering that Sherlock just said something John really ought to follow up on, but he’s enjoying himself far too much to listen. “We covered my career choice earlier, and since I know how much you hate to repeat yourself, I’m wondering if that traumatic visit to Tesco might have caused retrograde amnesia or something.”

            Sherlock’s answering basilisk glare would give the Gorgon a run for her money. “I’m tempted to report you to the RSPCA _and_ the British Medical Association. Does Sarah have _any_ idea how incompetent you really are?”

            John’s grin widens—for there’s really no bite to Sherlock’s bark, and there’s no mistaking the delight in the man’s eyes as he watches the hungry animal feed. The thumb of the hand holding the kitten is gently stroking its (his? Yes, OK, his, because what are the odds that smarty-pants will be wrong?) _his_ head, and his body is completely relaxed in the gentle firmness of Sherlock’s palm and fingers.

            John knows intimately exactly how gentle Sherlock can be when he chooses and is ever so briefly, guiltily jealous seeing that ferocious tenderness focused on another living thing. But the feeling is gone as soon as he registers it, replaced by a fierce pang of what can only be described as love for the study in contradictions he’s chosen to share his life with. The past twelve hours or so have been a veritable treasure trove of new information about this enigma wrapped inside a smart-arse of a man who knows everything there is to know about everyone he meets within seconds of encountering them. To most people, however, Sherlock himself remains a closed book written in a dead language in invisible ink on the vellum of his skin. John is no linguist, but he’s learned to parse the detective’s mood and emotions in the set of his muscles and to interpret the depths of his devotion in those caverns measureless to man that masquerade as eyes. The detective would kill him, dismember him and bury the parts in a selection of unmarked graves if John ever told another living soul how completely Sherlock gives his heart to those he loves. And it’s clear from every angle of that whipcord body, now subtly curved in a protective embrace around a scant handful of kitten, that Sherlock has already given his heart to this scrap of skin and bone he found scavenging in the bins at New Scotland Yard.

            Said kitten is sated and now lying on his back in Sherlock’s palm, eyes closed and wurfling in sleepy bliss as Sherlock strokes his full little belly. It’s a beautiful thing, it really is, but John hasn’t quite finished teasing the detective yet. Clearly the kitten’s staying, and lord knows John tries his best to encourage Sherlock in any pursuit that doesn’t require a hazmat suit and the bomb-disposal unit on speed-dial. That whisper in the back of his head is a little louder now, but still not specific enough about whatever it is he’s missed to make him think twice about launching his next salvo.

“So, Sherlock, I was thinking we could call around the shelters this afternoon and see if one will take the kitten for adoption.”

The outrage in Sherlock’s eyes when they flick to John’s is priceless, but he only has a moment to savor the point he’s scored before that gaze fills with the realization that John is having him on, and suddenly the whisper in John’s head is very loud indeed.

            _Oh, shit_ , John thinks—too late as always— _I’m fucked now …_

            “John, John,” Sherlock purrs with that ever-so-gentle velvet-around-stiletto tone that always makes the good doctor think of the click that accompanies a foot stepping on a landmine. “Little Hamish Holmes here isn’t going anywhere except back to sleep in my lap—”

And there it is. The thing John’s missed in his misguided attempt to have a little fun at Sherlock’s expense.

HH.  
Hamish.  
Hamish Holmes.

Sherlock’s still talking as he watches the penny drop. “—while you pop out and buy whatever’s on the list Molly gave me—it’s in the bag.” Sherlock’s expression is schooled innocence, but those eyes … those bloody eyes are gleaming with a kind of triumph John is accustomed to seeing on an almost daily basis when the detective inevitably gets the better of him.

            But it’s not in John’s nature to go down without a fight if he doesn’t like something, and that name simply has to change.

            “Sherlock, there’s no way on god’s green earth you’re calling the kitten Hamish.”

            John is saved from the humiliation of Sherlock’s doubtless scathing riposte by the sound of footsteps on the stairs heralding the arrival of Mrs. Hudson.

            “Yoo-hoo, boys, there’s a package for you—”

            She stops dead in her tracks with a hand to her mouth as she takes in the admittedly unexpected tableau of Sherlock and the kitten.

            “Oh, Sherlock—don’t the two of you make a pretty picture!”

            “Mrs. Hudson,’ Sherlock says in his best Lord-of-All-I-Survey voice, ‘please be acquainted with Hamish Holmes. He apologizes for failing to introduce himself properly, but as you can see, he’s presently indisposed.”

            John hasn’t quite given up on the naming issue yet, although realistically he knows he’s only fighting the inevitable now that Sherlock’s told Mrs. Hudson. But as he opens his mouth to protest Sherlock’s choice one last time in the strongest possible terms, Mrs. Hudson beats him to it and utterly derails him by saying:

            “It’ll be babies next, just you wait. Mrs. Turner’s married ones got a puppy last year and now they’re talking about finding a surrogate mother or adopting.”

            John’s only satisfaction in the face of the sure and certain knowledge that he’s lost the name game is the look of abject horror on Sherlock’s face at the word “babies.” The good doctor sees one last chance to salvage the flapping rags of his dignity by seizing the nanosecond it takes Sherlock to recover his composure. John stands, rubs his hands together and says, “Mrs. Hudson, can I interest you in a cup of tea? Sherlock has some kitten-related errands to run, and you mentioned a package.”

            “Lovely, Doctor. I just made a pot—why don’t you come down and leave Sherlock to it? I’ve baked banana bread—I’ll send John home with a slice for when you get back, Sherlock.”

            Were John as blind as a bat, he’d still have seen the mutinous, murderous look Sherlock skewers him with as he waves and heads downstairs with Mrs Hudson. John knows there’ll be tears before bedtime—his, of course—but decides it’s worth it to get his own back just a little on Sherlock for naming the bloody kitten Hamish. Because that is a gift that will only keep on giving.


End file.
